


Lesson Learned

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Crack, I mean, M/M, Tentabulges, Violent Sex, it's gamzee and bro, really though, what do you expect?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>The dreambubbles are full of surprises.
            </blockquote>





	Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dogslug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogslug/gifts).



_You can find anything in the dreambubbles._

Ain't that the bitch of it? Ain't that the craziest shit? Out here in the far reaches of paradox space where the horrortendrils get all up in your shit, all wrapping their tentacles around the wasted space of your rusted out thinkpan, you can find any-fuckin’-thing. You can find memories of when you and Karkat were still pale as fuck, close as beanseeds in a tubal sprouter, you can find bubbles where dead versions of that asshole Strider are just coming to terms with their death, their use as ‘Another Dead Dave’, as he'd put it. You even find your hive chillin' out on the beach one night and you curl up in the still-warm sand and let the surf half drown you while you wait for your lusus to come back.

He never does.

Speaking on lusii and guardians and people who shouldn't come the fuck back, you're smack in the motherfuckin’ middle of terrorizing another dead Dave one night when you meet Dave's older man-bro fucker. See, you got into the habit of fucking with Strider whenever you up and find him out here in the sleepytime reaches; you make a motherfucking _point_ to drag him off his respite slab as punishment for the motherfucking _crime_ of gettin’ all up in all your quadrants and it's just about when you're gettin' your creep on into his room when you run into the lusus he calls Bro.

Y'all wind up on the roof, of course. Dave mentioned the roof before.

Funny thing is, he talks like he's brewing pitch for you—so really, it don’t come as any fuckin’ bit of a surprise when the fight turns to ripping his jeans off to see that black pailing through.

Guess he just needs to get schoolfed on how motherfuckin’ _tough_ trolls are.

The way Strider gets all full of some motherfuckin’ talk about how badass his lusus was, you thought he’d be taller; but motherfucker don’t even have any measure on you, and (like all of the weird fleshy sacks called ‘humans’) he ain’t got any horns either. Why’s he wearing that dumb fuckin’ hat, if it ain’t to protect his thinkpan? “I could motherfuckin’ rip you from squishy torso all up to your wind chute, and you ain’t got no fuckin’ defense against it,” you purr, yanking at the fabric that covers his legs. He’d sworn at you when he’d realized what you were about, and he’s still _fighting_ you. Motherfucker’s got some damn _tenacity._

His fist smashes your face, and you see stars, miracle-bright spots skittering through your vision. You touch your mouth with two nubs, staring at the purple stains. _Or maybe this motherfucker just don’t know when the fuck to quit._ “Try it, clownfuck,” he growls, fingers scrabbling across the floor, long-limbed spiders made up of flesh and bone. You watch them move ‘til the image of them resolves back into his endnubs, which close around the hilt of his sword, all off and forgotten on the pebbly rooftop.

You laugh, sitting up, kicking out your fronds a ways out from your chest. “What the motherfuck do you think you’re gonna do?” You bare your teeth, offering him challenge. Motherfucker doesn’t know you can taste his fear, pulsing bright and sharp just under the stink of his anger. Motherfucker doesn’t know you’re all _about_ wrecking his shit. Not every chucklefuck out here knows they up and died, and you’d be willing to bet there’s still bright peepers behind those pointy eye-covers on his face. Yeah, he's scared, and you are all about that shit. “C’mon. Tear me _all_ the fuck up.”

The thrust that he throws up at you is desperate and lopsided, and you shift, slamming your body forward and forcefully driving the point of his sword up through your shoulder. The ache that lances through you makes you laugh, makes you cry, makes you _groan,_ and you sag forward, letting your own weight drag you further down the blade. Most humans would cringe away—their bodybags weren’t meant to take the damage trolls could—but he just grits his teeth and twists the blade. You can feel the jagged pain crackling up your shoulder and through your teeth, and you grind them together, hissing the pleasure of your own ache.

Your claws punch easy through his soft skin, dragging ribbons of red over his hips. Your bulge is snaking up over the hem of your pants, forcing them down, and what a shock it is to find no warm nook to push into between his legs! Your hips nudge closer to his, giving your bulge some space to work around the strange, unmoving thing between his spread fronds, and when he redoubles all his sad little efforts to get the fuck away, you know you got it figured out—this is what humans got, this stiff rod all rigid and unyielding, and you let your bulge squeeze it. “All up n’ _hard_ for me, Strider.” You lick your lips, tasting the sweet tinge of your own indigo blood. “Got me thinkin’ a motherfucker might be _enjoying this._ ”

He’s all panting and sneering up at you, and he rocks forward, shoving more of his blade through your skin. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “You ain’t provin’ anything by doin’ this.”

“Ain’t tryin’ to prove nothing, brother,” you respond, your bulge pressing into him, and that ends conversation for awhile.

He doesn’t stop fuckin’ _fighting_ , not to the motherfuckin’ end, and when you paint his backside with your slurry, he slaps at your chest with more force than he should be able to pull up. He’s strong, but you’re way the fuck stronger, and the backhand you land across the corner of his nugbone knocks his glasses and his consciousness away in one solid pain-making thump, one that reverberates clear up through your bones and back down through the blade you’ve still got skewering you.

He goes slack and you leave him like that, smear your bulge clean across his stomach; you mix indigo slurry with the red-black of his congealed blood and then a goddamn _miracle_ occurs to you, and you snatch his sword out of you, all triumphant and giving absolutely no shits about the burn. You end it with a spade carved into his chest, and the whole piece might be ragged but at least it marks him as what he is— _yours_. 

You’re gonna be keeping nice and motherfucking _close_ to this dreambubble for awhile. You ain’t had any fun like that in _sweeps._

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually requested by [Dogslug](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dogslug), with a prompt written by [Fishadee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fishadee), and then it was combed over and Gamzee-ized by [technicolorcarbon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolorcarbon). Phew!  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
